M.R. Graham's Blog, page 28

Slavic fantasy, please!

Don’t get me wrong; I love folklore in all forms, and I’ve put a lot of time and effort into researching the Western fairy, selkie, will o’ the wisp, hooded spirit, versipellis, jotunn, etc. But I feel like Celtic mythology (encompassing the English, Irish, and Scottish traditions) has largely dominated fantasy literature, with brief overtures from the Norse countries, and I can’t see any clear reason why. It’s interesting, of course, but I wouldn’t say that it’s MORE interesting than any other folkloric system.

Some of you in the know may be aware that The Cold and The Mora in the Mists, books three and five of the Books of Lost Knowledge, will be taking place primarily in (what is now) Poland, with forays into modernized segments of the Arthur legend. The Cold is all about vampires, and The Mora in the Mists is about a mora who narrowly avoided becoming a rusalka.

The thing is, I wanted to see how other authors have addressed the setting and the mythology, how the creatures have been presented and altered for modern audiences, and I have absolutely no idea where to look. Amazon is no help at all. So please, if you have come across any work of fantasy that takes even a part of its mythos from the Slavic world, give me a link.

Texts and ethnologies are helpful as well. You can never have too much research.

The Wailing – Coming Halloween

Cover art by Filip Radulescu

With Nazi bombs falling from the sky and fires consuming London, reluctant immortal Daniel Leland finds himself in an uncomfortable position. As a halfhearted employee of the British government, blackmailed into submission, he is forced to use his peculiar talent for murder in the service of the Crown. But as the assignments become impossibly challenging, the limits of that talent are tested. The Luftwaffe is not the most explosive thing to menace Great Britain, and even dead things can die again. There is more at stake than the questionable life of a lone agent, more at stake than Daniel Leland would care to admit.

The Wailing – A Book of Lost Knowledge

Available 31 October

Writing Soup

Here, have a recipe.

I’ve noticed that when I know I’m going to be up late writing, I tend to eat the same things. (Mostly pork rinds, PB&J, or carrots, but hey…) When I can’t stand the idea of something crunchy out of a bag, I look for something I can throw together in a hurry, usually something composed of anything I can find in the pantry. But I do have one fallback recipe for a sort of soup that’s quick and easy and versatile.

You’ll need:

Soup Pot.
32 oz chicken stock (or water)
1 carrot
1 stick of celery
2 cloves of garlic
2 bay leaves
2 eggs
1 tbs corn starch
1 jar or something for dissolving the starch

 

I start with a base of chicken stock – 32 oz, or one box. If there’s not that much in the pantry, you can make it up with water and then add extra seasoning. Because it’s flexible.

Heat that 32 oz of stock in an appropriately-sized pot on the stove – but leave a little bit aside to put in your jar for dissolving your corn starch. While that’s heating, chop up one carrot, one stick of celery, and two cloves of garlic as finely as you like. When the stock comes to a boil, chuck those suckers in. I put two bay leaves in there with it, because I like bay. One might suffice, though.

Those will boil for about fifteen minutes. When the veg is soft, turn off the heat. Take that extra stock and your corn starch and shake ‘em up in the jar. Add this to the soup and stir it in.

At this point, I go through the spice cabinet and start adding things willy-nilly. Usually it’s something like:

1/2 tsp kosher salt
1/2 tsp white pepper
1/2 tsp ground ginger
garlic powder (no idea how much, but it’s usually more than most people like)
dash of thyme
splash of soy sauce

Stir all of that in.

Crack your eggs into a bowl and beat the snot out of them – make sure to break the yolk. Add that right into the middle of the stoup and stir IMMEDIATELY. I forgot to stir once, and ended up with a big chunk of egg instead of lovely little eggy bits. I guess if you like big chunks of egg, go right ahead and don’t stir. Whatever floats your boat.

Serve and eat immediately. If you leave the egg sitting in hot liquid too long, it gets rubbery. Gotta eat it while it’s still egg-textured.

Dang. Now I’m hungry.

Writing is easy.

This is going to be a short one. I just wanted to air this.

Someone told me yesterday that anyone can be a writer. I know this individual meant it to be encouraging, but I couldn’t help hearing “You’re not doing anything special,” and “It doesn’t matter whether you’re any good at this.” He meant well, really, but it was backhanded and full of subtext, and just flat wrong. 

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t like to be exclusive. I firmly believe that everyone has a calling, something that they are best at, and at which they will excel.

That does not mean that anyone can do anything. There are conditions.

First, define “writer.” Most simply, a writer is someone who writes. Okay. But that is rarely what people mean when they describe someone as being a writer. When people talk about writers, they usually mean someone who is good at writing and who makes money with it. I go with a combination of the last two, because people who are good don’t always make money, and people who make money aren’t always good, but both fall under the colloquial use of “writer.” Someone who writes  but is neither good nor makes money… I don’t know. That guy who stands on the sidelines for the whole game and then accidentally scores for the wrong team might be on the soccer team, but is he really a soccer player?

Anyway, my encouraging friend meant it in the sense of making money, and I usually mean it in the sense of being good, so I’ll go with those.

1) What you want to do and what you’re called to do have to coincide. I wanted to be a physicist, but I was only (at best) mediocre at physics. I’m good at writing, but it took me years to make that into a primary goal. I was fine with writing on the side, writing things no one would ever see. I didn’t realize until much later that writing for myself just wasn’t enough for me. The thing is, I had to realize that before I could really start striving to “be a writer.”

2) You have to work at it. I moderate a couple of writing groups on DeviantART, and I’ve seen a lot of “I started writing a couple months ago and I can already tell I’m the next big thing” type stuff. Mind-blowingly, there’s a lot of “You should be honored that I’m even interested in your stupid little group” stuff, as well. The funny thing is that those people are usually just flat bad writers. They’re bad enough that they can’t tell they’re bad. They have no interest in improving, because improvement is for losers.

Even if it’s your calling, you have to recognize that skills aren’t picked up overnight. You’d be pretty damn pissed if I put you on skis and shoved you down a mountain with no instruction, right? No one can jump cornices with no experience. Likewise, just because I put a pen in your hand does not mean that you can write like Milosz.

3) You have to accept criticism. In those same DA groups, I’m always pleased to see things like “I want feedback so I can get better at this.” Often that comes from novice writers, but a lot of times, I see that from people who are much better writers than I am. They’re really, really good, but they understand that good advice can come from any corner. Even people who can’t write often are able to read something and see that it needs a few words cut out, or a few words inserted, or a little more explanation. Art critics can’t necessarily produce a Renoir, and Olympic judges don’t do a whole lot of long jumps, but their observations are still valid. You can’t always see the flaws from the inside; you need an outside perspective.

4) Work hard, accept criticism, want to do it. But you know, honestly, that’s not enough. Hard work will only take you so far. I worked damn hard at physics and got next to nowhere for my trouble. You have to have a certain amount of in-born talent. I know that’s not a popular or politically correct thing to say, but not anyone can be anything. I couldn’t be a physicist, and not anyone can be a writer. You have to be wired the right way, able to produce not only a technically acceptable sentence but an elegant one. Can anyone learn the mechanics of writing? Short of those suffering from aphasia, yes, I think so. It’s a technical skill akin to muscle memory. If you do it enough times, it becomes second nature. Can anyone create something beautiful with words? Honestly, no. I could learn oil painting if I wanted, maybe make some happy little trees, but I doubt if anything I ever painted would be genuinely attractive. I can describe those trees, though, and do it beautifully.

5) Straight-up writing skill is not the only factor in financial success – which is what my encouraging friend meant by “be a writer.” (Because of course, writerhood is not defined by writing or writing well, but rather by selling that writing to millions of people… Of course.) To sell, the market has to want your product. Few people would argue that Stephenie Meyer is a master of characterization or even technically proficient, but she does have a knack for writing exactly what a huge demographic wants to read. That’s a skill in itself. I have no idea what the masses want to read, so I can guarantee that, no matter how hard I work at writing, I will never make it as big as Stephenie Meyer. I’m okay with that. I’d like to be filthy rich, of course, but my goal right now is just to make enough that I could quit my day job, if I wanted to.

Yes, there are prodigies who are innately brilliant and don’t have to work hard and shoot to the top of the bestseller list without breaking a sweat, but they are few and far between, and they are not “anyone.” Unfortunately, the idea that writing is easy seems to have completely pervaded society. The teen-angst-poem writers on DeviantART (and there are some who do that well, but again, they are few and far between) all think that they are modern Shakespeares, because anyone can be a writer. Plotting is a lost art. So is character development. I tell these people that I have hundreds of pages of backstory for some of my characters, and they can’t understand why. They can’t understand why it sometimes takes me a week to write a thousand words, or the necessity of a proofreader. They don’t understand that writing is a job.

This ended up a lot longer and more ranty than I meant it to be, but I had to get it out of my system. I do not appreciate it when people belittle something at which I have worked so hard for so many years. Writing is not sitting down and spitting out a story. Writing is squeezing a story drop-by-drop out of a nearly-dry brain. It is not easy.

Self Assessment; or, I’m cooler than I sometimes feel.

“I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one’s self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one’s own powers.” ~Sherlock Holmes, The Greek Interpreter

So, I just realized that I have spent the last several hours mentally cataloguing all of my shortcomings and personal pitfalls, so I’m going to spend a bit of time tooting my own horn. I don’t need to focus on the negative.

I’m a good writer. Yes, I think I can say that objectively. I have a firm grasp of the mechanics of the English language, my syntax and punctuation are usually close to flawless, and I refuse to publish anything less than a well-turned sentence, either in print or on the internet. Yes, I’m good at this. I think that if I had hurried up and gotten a move on earlier, I might have a moderate amount of success at this point. Unfortunately, self-confidence is not among my virtues.

I’m creative. I spend a damn lot of time fleshing out my characters, and people relate to them. I’m not sure why; I mean, some of them are complete asshats – the characters, I mean. I suppose they’re realistic asshats, though. Others are my babies, and it kills me to hurt them, but it has to be done. I put a lot of effort into the people I create, and more live in my head than will ever be put on paper.

And damnit, I’m a fair artist. Not exceptional, not even good, really, but I can sketch up my characters and get the point across.

I’m smart, too. I like acquiring knowledge, and I’ve acquired quite a bit of it. I like sharing that knowledge. If I can distribute facts through a vehicle of fiction, all the better. I love the research phase of writing, and I love classes, and I love university libraries. I learned to read and talk simultaneously, and I’ve consumed more books already than many people do in their entire lives. I’m conversant in quite a lot of subjects – from anthropology, in which I took my degree; to pedagogy, in which I’m working on another; to Sherlockiana and biblical archaeology and the chronology of Star Trek and Polish history.

I’ve got skills. I knit things, and I’m a black diamond skier, and I play the viola (sometimes, and not well, but I do play!), and I can make kickass pasta sauce and eggdrop soup and pierogi, and I can hit a bullseye at two hundred yards with any firearm that’s legal in the United States. I’ve got a green belt in Shotokan, and elementary grades in Israeli Krav Maga and Keysi Fighting Method. I can name every bone in the human body and translate Classical and Ecclesiastical Latin.

Damn, I’m awesome.

Yes, this is a bragging post. I am bragging. I am full of myself. After feeling like crap for most of the day, that’s a good thing. I feel better now.

Bloggers, I challenge you to write your own self assessment. If you’re feeling like crap, convince yourself that you’re damn awesome. Go. I will praise you.

Review – Eyes of the Seer / Rebirth of the Seer (Peter Dawes)

I’ll just pop these two into one post, shall I?

I’ll start with Eyes of the Seer, the first book in Peter Dawes’ Vampire Flynn Trilogy. (As I understand it, the trilogy has recently been expanded. While ‘series’ is not quite as poetic as ‘trilogy’, it is also the mark of a good business move. I’ll definitely keep buying for as long as these things keep coming out.)

Summary: I liked it.

Eyes is definitely character- rather than plot-driven. The protagonist, Flynn (Also known as Peter) is a sadistic, schizo, bloodthirsty vampire assassin who – unfortunately for his fun – has a higher calling that comes with extra-special seer powers. Vampire slayer powers. Awkward. The psychological exploration of a bisected mind is fascinating stuff, just unbelievable enough to make it appropriate for a vampire, just realistic enough to make it terrifying. The agony of the story is palpable, and each character brings a particular piquancy to the narrative. The story itself is fast-paced and engaging, with plenty of kinks (in multiple senses of the word) thrown in for spice.

The book only covers the first part of his journey, though, and as such, closes with little actual closure. It absolutely does not work as a stand-alone. Of course, it isn’t meant to.

The only thing that detracted, and only in a few instances, was the language. The bad-guy vampires are fond of flowery language and of nicknames for one another that all seem to include the word “dark.” It makes sense to encourage decadence and corruption if those things are what ensure your power, but it was just too frequent for my taste. I also noticed the word “loathe” used often as a noun, which threw me off.

The second book, Rebirth of the Seer, far outdid Eyes. 

The character development absolutely explodes into a fireworks display of nuance as Flynn begins to realize his calling and as a result is thrown headlong into conflict with vampires, other seers, sorcerers, and himself. Yes, himself. He’s schizo, remember? He’s getting better, but he’s still still got little shards of his own personality floating in the wreckage of self that his vampire maker left behind.

And his struggle is intensely real.

We also get a lot more development from other corners, especially Monica, his watcher, who is hot and badass and hot and sarcastic and hot… and hiding something. Following close on her hot and badass heels is a trio of Scooby Gang-esque ex-vampire slayers with a charmingly frat-society vibe. Unfortunately, they also happen to be a bit prejudiced where vampire-seers are concerned.

Rebirth is a lot more plot-driven than was Eyes, and the plot is vastly amped-up. The fight scenes (and there are a lot of them) were pulse-pounding (at least for those of us with a pulse), and the interaction is a lot sexier, for lack of a better word. Romance under fire. The plot focus also shifts from the “vampires are bad and nasty people” of Eyes to “let’s do something about that.” Things move quickly straight from the beginning, cycling through violence and romance as they build up to… another cliffhanger. Damn.

Long story short, I dig these books. I’m looking forward to the next in the series. Find out more about them at vampireflynn.crimsonmelodies.com

The Wailing – intro

A beginning to a short story featuring Daniel Leland, soon to be released for Kindle.

The sound of the sirens is what has stayed with me. I remember the explosions, the engines of the Messerschmitts, the screams of men trapped beneath the rubble. Of course I do. But it is the wail of the sirens that yet haunts my dreams, settles that same cold sickness in my gut, that same cold slickness on my palms. It is the banshee shriek of coming death.

The night was cold and clear when that sound prickled along my arms like so many icy fingers reaching out from behind the drapes.

Rowan stilled her hands at the typewriter and ripped the sheet from the machine, lest some unscrupulous eye should take advantage of her temporary absence. She snatched up a grey cardigan, a torch, and the requisite gas mask, and had nearly gotten to the door before she turned back to look at me. Her dark eyes were as empty as ever.

“Are you coming?” she asked as she stuck one arm into a cardigan sleeve.

“I’ll follow later,” I said. “I thought to take advantage of the chaos.”

“Your job,” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

She did not ask about that job. She never had, and I knew that she never would, just as I never asked about the papers she snatched from the typewriter to lock away in her briefcase each night. We had a good arrangement, Rowan and I. It was the most congenial possible billet.

She nodded and disappeared into the darkness of the garden, her exit punctuated by a pungent whiff of cordite.

I, meanwhile, indulged in my own business. I laid down my book and donned my hat and coat, slipping over my shoulder the strap of my own gas mask in its canvas bag; court danger though I might, I had no wish for scorched lungs.

The streets of London were deadly dark at that hour, save for the lurid orange stain of fires on the sky to the East. The blackout gave me the cover I required. Beneath me, I knew, were a million quivering hearts, children clinging to mothers, husbands to wives. They waited to hear the thunder of German boots, but I am no German, and my boots are silent.

The Wailing © 2012 MR Graham

Jerzy Lojek – Polish Revolutionary and Vampire

Oh, look! I can draw! Sort of.

For some reason, on an upright screen, he looks like Alan Rickman. He didn’t when he was flat on my sketchbook.

Anyway, Jerzy is the main protagonist of The Cold, Book 3 of the Lost Knowledge series.

Fun with Holmesian Fan Characters - 1

Reblogged from Always 1895:

I had no desire to attract the attention of the two men I had seen entering the club, so I took myself in the back way, as I had done so many times before. As ever, the staff did not greet me, or even acknowledge my presence, with the notable exception of Henri and his sly wink. He obligingly turned his back as I stole a slice of bread and a rasher of bacon from the larder to break my fast.

Read more… 363 more words

From my other project, Always 1895.

Prosze – a Lost Knowledge Excerpt

The young man was nearly dead. The rays of Aniela’s lantern showed her a trail of glistening black that snaked away from the garden into the fields beyond, ending with the near-corpse at her feet. There could hardly have been a drop of blood left in his body. His face was torn, his fingers mangled from dragging himself across the ground, but the largest part of the problem seemed to be the small, round hole in his jacket, matched by another, slightly larger, on the other side, just beneath his ribcage. But even before she saw his injuries, she had known; the smell of corruption squatted heavy in the garden with its own malign presence.

Aniela set the lantern down and carefully cut the cloth away from the belly wound, finding shiny blue flesh underneath. The veins stood out black and angry beneath his skin, and she knew that whatever blood he had left was poisoned by the rot.

“Polak?” she asked quietly as she unbuckled his musket strap and set the gun aside, “czy Rosjanin?”

He groaned in response, and with the last of his strength, forced his bloodied hand up to his lapels.

Aniela brushed his hand aside and slipped two fingers beneath his jacket, coming up with a small leather wallet from an interior pocket. Inside, under glass, were a profile-portrait and a coiled lock of auburn hair, though from a woman living or dead, Aniela could not say. In a small pocket behind the memento were similar cut-paper profiles of five girls, the youngest no more than an infant.

“Proszę,” he whispered. Please.

And she remembered him, the days and years, the fighting and the resentment and the difficulty, and everything else that was soon to be. She remembered the wife, Nataszia, and her outrage, and the girls growing up with a father, but not the one who left home. It was past time, really – far past time to build another family.

“So, this is how it happens.”

Leaving the gun where it lay, Aniela lifted the dying man in her wiry, old arms and bore him into the warmth of the house. He looked even worse by candlelight, though she could see the potential for an innocent sort of comeliness in his battered face. She pricked her finger and painted his tattered lips with red, performing the same service for the holes in his sides. When he was thus anointed, she took a bit back; he did not react when her eyeteeth pierced the heel of his hand.

“You’ll be with them again,” Aniela promised. She stroked his hair until his sluggish heart stopped.

The Cold: The Third Book of Lost Knowledge © 2011 MR Graham